Lunch At The Murder House
by worshippingbones
Summary: Rather long character sketch/introspection with missing scenes of the post-season one murder house activity between the ghosts. The Harmons invite living folk for lunch.
1. Chapter 1

There is a freedom in lying, and Moira found it and adopted it with more sincerity than most of the house did.

With her days unnumbered, bound to the stake of the house, there were few amusements that went untested. Although solitary, she occasionally joined another spirit for a game of "kill each other all over again", but most days they stuck with cards because event the thrill of death ran stale.

The invisible residents made their own trouble and stirred up enough drama to keep themselves amused. Moira sought higher pleasures and drank up the rush that came from luring people into the house on false pretenses, false promises and false seduction.

Part of their job- all of their jobs – was lying for the sake of the house's secrets. When new residents moved in, they showed up one by one and days apart and sometimes not at all, not until the living were asleep.

Moira would appear in the house as one of the first ones. She was glad she had kept that uniform all those years ago and not stolen some of the resident's clothing.

She'd show up in the yard, or the backyard, and introduce herself with a shy smile, a flash of her bad eye. "I'm Moira O'hara," she'd smile, extending a hand. "I'm the maid. I come with the house."

Bitter truth to that one. She'd be a part of that industry forever, because she'd be a part of the house forever.

She'd fake the rest of the dialogue – negotiating her payment, her history, her qualifications. All of her statistics and tips were thirty years old and had been buried with her, but she freshened them up for newcomers.

She kept the money they gave her on her person, as not to have it stolen by other ghosts or found by residents. The dead had no use for money outside negotiating with living counterparts, betting amongst themselves, or shopping sprees on Halloween.

Nora liked to hoard the money ghosts lost or left around; the others let her, because they barely cared but she seemed accustomed to stockpiling it. A habit that carried over from life. They pitied her and would occasionally pay her to stop crying or at least muffle herself.

Outside of the Harmons, Moira liked to settle with Lorraine and her children. Moira was happy to take care of the children, telling them not to touch their smoldering skin, guiding them around the house, mending cuts and reading them stories when the sun sank down and the basement lights flickered on.

Lorraine was quiet. Moira understood that she had a lot of deal with, things in life and death and the wall between the two that were still resolving in her heart, but Moira had days like that too, and they sat together quietly and sipped tea, saying nothing as Lorraine's skin repeatedly crisped, flaked, fell, and regrew.

Despite the violence she had been driven to out of grief, she had a motherly quality to her that spoke of stillness and confidence, and now, because of her awful death, experience. It almost came down to competition when Lorraine was in the room. _Yeah, you shot yourself in the head_, she seemed to say, blackened nose in the air. _I __**burned**__ to death. _

She wore her wounds constantly, something that the other residents didn't like. Moira thought it was an interesting way of coping; ballsier and louder than most, Lorraine showed everyone who cared to look what had happened to her, what she had gone through, what circumstances landed her here permanently. Others hid their wounds – Tate's gunshots never showed, Moira's eye was perfectly healthy, Elizabeth wasn't sectioned like lunch meat.

As it were, Moira and Lorraine were part of the same tangled web and this drew them together, despite the topic never breaching their conversations. Constance was the source of their entrapment, as hateful as it seemed to pin one person down, she was the stem, the root. Lorraine visibly bristled and vanished immediately when Constance came calling; Moira, rooted in her job, was usually unable to vanish.

On weekends, Moira would loiter around in her young form around the front of the house. She'd sit on the front steps, waiting for someone to walk by so she could approach the front gate just as they walked up and twine her fingers around the metal, eyes large and lonely, smile suspicious, but seemingly harmless, as she enticed them to come have tea because she was lonely and wanted to have lunch with someone.

This turned into a game, once the Harmons caught on. It was usually young men who were brave enough to come in. Lured by Moira's rich red hair and short black uniform, they followed her swaying hips up into the murder house, where she politely took their coats and sat them down in the dining room. Vivien prepared delicate tea sandwiches in the kitchen, smiling to herself at the thrill of speaking to someone new, someone living.

"Hell of a cook," Ben would remark as he pretended to casually pass through, slipping an arm around Vivien's waist with a proud squeeze before exiting. He usually sat out on these lure-a-stranger games, but liked the come in and make snacks or do dishes to keep up the semblance of a normal family.

Violet thought these rituals were both thrilling and mean – you can't just bring people in and pretend we're all happy goody-goody when we're all dead, that's so fucked up – but there was an undeniable pleasure to seeing a new face in the house, especially one that could leave. It brought them together.

Partially because the responsible dead residents of the house hand to protect their guest once he stepped past the threshold. Not all of the residents were kind. Not all wanted to share. Not all of them were looking for healing and redemption by sharing experiences with the outside world. Some of them wanted more suffering – and this is where the nature of evil comes into question.


	2. Chapter 2

Lorraine was one of these people; Elizabeth was one of these people; Hayden was one; Thaddeus, no doubt, had started the trend just by way of being created.

Vivien puzzled over this often while she watched Lorraine close her burnt eyes and sip tea. She wasn't a person with the sort of chemical imbalances that would lead her to desire the harm of another human, and she was thankful, because that was Tate's territory, and she didn't want another one of those. Lorraine just had this tendency to want people to suffer as she did, to experience what she had gone through as fully as she did – fear, betrayal, and a desperate jump to control the circumstances in her life.

Perhaps this brought her a peace of mind or perhaps this made her feel less alone, perhaps it gave her satisfaction to know that her experience could be recreated and controlled, but it was still sadistic and there was nothing that the house loved more than sadism.

She didn't brag about it or speak about it. She was an odd-looking woman, but carried herself with an honest elegance that belied her willingness to care for her children and those around her, except for the breathing bodies who walked into the house.

Vivien never brought it up, it was a personal impulse and she accepted the fracture that trauma had opened in this kind woman's mind. She didn't want to irritate the mouth of that wound, but she always stepped in when Lorraine turned cruel towards guests.

For one, she wasn't allowed into rooms with guests in them because of the burns (which she refused to hide). She accepted this and stayed invisible, recognizing her pride as a sacrifice of socialization, skin smoking quietly in a corner where no one would bump into her. They'd see her smiling, watching the Harmons serve lunch to these unsuspecting visitors. They'd ask about the history, the exquisite woodwork and architecture, how much it had been. Vivien answers these happily, blonde curls falling around her face, hiding her vibrant smile between strands of flawless hair as she leans over to set the table.

Moira watched, sitting, and thought that Vivien made a perfect host. Beautiful, motherly, and with unbelievable conversational ability, especially with strangers – and she was so, so happy to have someone from outside visiting. Steady, sturdy, smart. Violet benefited so much from her care and rarely thanked her. A lot like Tate and Constance, she realized, noticing how Vivien put her whole body into laughter; almost a bit too much, as she slapped the visitor gently on the shoulder in jest.

The family always sat down with the guest. It was partially being involved, but the unspoken fine print was that it also signified a ring of protection. They were in range to lunge and defend all those pumping arteries, the flexing lungs, the memories and changing personality._ You weren't invited. Don't you dare. _


	3. Chapter 3

The ghosts made sure to remove the "for sale" sign before luring anyone in. Vivien occasionally offered to help Moira bring people in, but that seemed like taking a present away from the red-haired maid, who took an incredible significance in her potential to attract people. This was a coping method, Vivien figured, and honored it by leaving it alone, much like Lorraine's violence – but it didn't stop her from occasionally going to the gate herself and talking to people.

Guests were usually skeeved out by the invitation, but Vivien did her best to scrape up an excuse.

"Excuse me," she'd start, smiling through her curls as she unlocked the date, careful to stay within bounds.

"I know this sounds really odd, but we just made a bunch of food for a party and everyone canceled – do you wanna come in, just for lunch? I'm Vivien, by the way. If you're not in a rush, you're welcome to come in. We've just got too much food and the whole family was excited for visitors, we'd love to meet people from the neighborhood.."

They'd traipse up back to the house, Vivien spilling facts and anecdotes like a salesman to dampen the creepiness of the browned vines that crawled up the bricks of the house's face, the long weeds that had popped up in patches throughout the yard, the dark, the foreboding interior of the house that pressed against the front-facing windows.

"We're just an eccentric family," Viv would say, gently, opening the door for their guest. "We bought the murder house and now we're inviting strangers to tea. Trying to soften up its reputation, I guess! Here's the maid of the house, Moira. She's fantastic."

The old woman would round the corner from the living area and smile at the guest, extending a hand. "Moira, would you mind grabbing Violet? Tell her we managed to get someone to eat with us."

Moira would saunter off to deliver this double-edged message. Bringing ghosts out would also mean keeping other ghosts back, and she would quietly extract Violet from whatever she was doing to bring her downstairs, looking disapprovingly at ghosts that reappeared in hopes of being invited. Tate would always lurk under the stairway while Violet came downstairs, just looking at her while she pretended to be focusing on the sound of people talking, focusing on staring straight ahead.

Preparations for this game had to be made in advance. They had to negotiate with either Constance or Larry, their only outside links, get them groceries – they were more than happy to pay for the errand, and Larry was usually happy to contribute. He liked the twisted aspect of this hosting and was never minded contributing to positivity inside the house. "You're doing a good thing," he'd say, handing the full bags to whoever came to the basement door with his good arm. "Smart of you guys to stay connected. Invite me to dinner sometime, huh?"

They never did – Vivian didn't like him and Ben loathed him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 12.30.12: I will be updating this! I'm planning for two more chapters. I've really been having fun with this one, but I can feel myself getting disorganized at some parts because there is just so much to talk about with these characters. Expect more in the following week, as well as whole other stories on some of these interactions and character details. Nothing better than some good development sketchin', guys. Every review and favorite is seriously appreciated, I love you aaaalll.


	4. Chapter 4

They didn't know how he had weasled out of jail – bail bonds, he once said offhandedly, but they didn't ask. He didn't skulk around the house anymore out of fear of seeing Constance, but they called on him enough to sate his fascination with the property.

He only saw Lorraine once- once when she stood in the shadows, watching Vivian detail a grocery list to him. She noted his suit, what she could see of it from around Viv's figure as she leaned against the door frame, rattling off options. She noted his damaged arm, still curled tight against his side. How'd he get his suit on every day with that crippled arm? The suit was immaculate on him; it was crisp, clean – ironed, still the same suit that he had worn for years, but delicately taken care of. Did he have another woman helping him? Again? The thought was enough to stop her from appearing in his presence ever again. She opted for invisible or left the room whenever he stopped by, washed in memories, burning brighter than ever in dim rooms of the abandoned house.

Neighbors occasionally saw her burning. Constance saw her burning from her bedroom window, looking up at the murder house – a silouhette of a woman, outlined and detailed by red-hot light, passing through the house room by room at night. She was the only light in the house most days. Constance, reclining with a smoke, chalked this up to vanity and a need for attention that transcended the grave; if she could see the poor woman dragging herself around, other people certainly could, too. The house didn't need to draw any more attention than it did.

She invited herself over for lunch one day, through the back door, as she always did. Vivien, a tray of chips and dip in hand, nearly dropped the platter when Constance announced herself. "Hope you don't mind," she murmured, exquisitely dressed for the occasion. "I've heard about your lunches and I thought it'd be a crime to miss out on one."

The guest, a shaky-looking woman with thin black hair in her early 30's, didn't seem to appreciate the new arrival and looked suddenly as if she had forgotten something at home. A common excuse, but the ghosts were in no position to keep an uncomfortable guest – Constance's eyebrows shot up as the woman gathered her purse and excused herself, just short of jogging to the door and out the gate.

"We tried," Vivian sighed, pushing the platter onto a free counter. "We have to really aim for people who don't spook so easily. Nobody was walking by today, though, I didn't know what to do and I just really needed to talk to someone."

Constance sat down at the dressed-up table, straightening her dress and giving Vivien a you-aren't-getting-rid-of-me smile. "Well. I'll still have lunch, if you don't mind. It looks like you've certainly got enough food."

Hiding displeasure was difficult. Vivien's relationship with Constance had always been odd – partially frightened of her because of what she knew about the house and partially annoyed by her Southern ability to elbow her way into any situation, but now that they were part of the house, Constance was an important tie to the outside world, but she still had brashness that made her a difficult guest.

"I'll get everyone," Vivien said, setting the platter down in front of their one lunch guest, who was already settling her napkin across her thighs. "You can start on that."

"Moira isn't coming, is she?" Constance said, loud enough – Moira was just a few steps away, invisible, looking bitter. "I was hoping for an actual guest," she spat, "not an intruder." Her rival smiled, untouchable, and complimented her incredible hospitality.

Vivien left the room gladly, busying herself with rounding up the family. The spats that Moira and Constance had were absurd and years old. Too old to still have the potency that they did; the poison in Moira's voice was unmistakeable. Fighting with Constance was not a game, and Constance was still slinging verbal abuse with the desperation of someone needing vengeance. There was no vengeence to be wrought, Vivien sighed, leaning into Violet's room to signal her to come downstairs. Moira was as dead as she could be. The fight would never end.

Since this lunch was living-person free, they invited everyone in the house who wanted to join, with the exception of Hayden, Thaddeus, and Tate. Elizabeth trooped down the stairs, Beau in her arms, who was squealing wildly, happy to be let out of the attic. Charles and Nora Montgomery walked together, apparently at peace for the time being. Vivien, Ben and Violet led the way and dragged extra chairs from storage to accommodate their big household.

The moment they rounded the corner into the dining room, Beau wriggled from Elizabeth's arms and bounded straight for Constance, who scooped him up and held him on her lap, beaming. The household had taken to Beau – whatever he was, however he got to be what he was, he was charming and enthusiastic in a way that was both childlike and animalistic. Limited in vocalization and capacity for reasoning, he was easily fascinated and pleased. Nora was disgusted by him, and made a face that was distinctly unladylike when she saw the child squirming and wiggling with joy in Constance's loving grip.

"Charles, move," she snapped. "I don't want to see that thing. Let me sit on the other end of the table."

Charles stood for her, pulling the chair out for her, eyes on the floor as Constance laughed, bitter, glaring daggers the couple - "Beau is not the first unfortunate child to be trapped in this hateful place," she said, jaw set, a lock of immaculate blonde hair falling from her bun, pulled out of place by said child, who was now snoring. "I believe the first is yours."

The comment went ignored. It was always something, and Violet and Ben rolled their eyes at each other as they loaded their plates with appetizers. The peace that had transcended their direct family was unbreakable – not by house drama, not by the events of their deaths.


	5. Chapter 5

Four weeks into their ghosting experience, the Harmons realized they had a serious problem.

If they wanted to stay sane and stave off boredom, they needed every resource they could possibly have, but how could one go about paying for electricity under a name that carved on a grave? For a few weeks after Ben's death, the power had been kept on by their paid bill and the necessary follow-up investigations, but it soon ran out. Violet ran downstairs to tell her parents, which they usually would've shrugged off, but this called for a talk.

The family had initially gathered, unsure, to discuss their new options in the afterlife. Violet sat between her parents, twisting her rings around her tiny fingers and toying with her hair. These were uncharacteristically feminine motions and both her parents could tell that she was frightened for this talk.

She had tried so hard to deny any interest in her potential when she was live – much like any other teenager her age – but now she was stuck in the vast yawn of the afterlife with no connections and no guide.

The family conference was strange for all of them. Ben and Vivian sat flanking Violet, in their atypical half-sphere formation of parental domination and comfort, but it was much more serious now. She wasn't rolling her eyes or texting their efforts away. They all needed comfort.

Ben, ever the psychiatrist, suggested that they start with a list. He had one of his old patient notebooks open and wrote OPTIONS on one side, under which he put a beginning bullet.

"This doesn't have to be the end for us," he started, folding his hands. The room was silent. Vivian was tense, watching him – she wasn't putting a lot of faith in this talk.

If they had been alive, composed of cells and blood and marrow and lymph, it would have gone a certain way.

Violet would've come to the dinnertime talk under sheer obligation and fear to being penalized for her absence, but she would have her phone in her hand or one earbud in. She would be pointedly distracted while they talked. Her replies would be snappy, short, and mostly for shock value- and it would work. Vivian would lose patience ten minutes in and leave the table, rubbing her temples and ready to cry. Ben would try to reason and bargain eventually tell her to leave, go to her room, because if she wasn't going to watch out for her mouth or her grades or her future, then he wasn't going to waste his breath. The little 5'5'' figure would stomp off immediately, more shaken than she showed, and spend the rest of her night either online, on the phone, or laying on her bed, listening to music until she fell asleep.

But here, she was looking at her father.

"We have some options. Violet, honey, how do you feel about your education?"

A heavy moment where Violet hmmed and looked down at the table.

"I know that school was rough for you. You barely got a chance before all this happened," Vivian chimed in.

The suggestion of a smile lifted one side of Violet's mouth and she shrugged a shoulder underneath her cardigan. Back to being cool. Forever non-chalant.

"I wish I had tried harder," she finally said. The finality in her quiet voice broke Ben's heart. Ever since they had reunited, she had been much more honest than she had ever been alive. The dam had broken.

"I was thinking about college, a little bit."

Both parents had feared as much – what could they do for her now? What college options did she have?

She had to be invisible for the rest of eternity. How could they give her opportunities in limbo?

"There are tons of free courses online," Vivian said suddenly. "We just need power. We need a way to keep the power on, but then I can start up some sort of online service to sell – get the checks mailed to a PO box under someone else's name, have Constance cash them for a fee."

"That's brilliant, Viv," Ben murmured, scribbling away. Violet had notably perked up.

"That's true. There's tons of that shit on Youtube. Tutorials for everything. Dad, you could do like.. online psychiatric counseling. Under a different name or something."

"Absolutely."

The room seemed to brighten before them as the paper slowly filled with Ben's hurried handwriting, detailing the possibilities that would outline their next years, decades, centuries.

"We just need another person who's in on it to wrap up all the connections. What can we do about the power?"

"I don't think Constance would help."

"Nah."

"I don't really want Larry in the house."

"Perfectly understandable."

"Marcy," Vivian offered, tentative.

"She's not in on it, Mom."

Marcy in question had been at the house every few days, prepping it for resale and trying to nullify the house's horrific timeline.

"I think it's time we introduced her to it. What's the harm? We just need to get her to understand and I'm sure she'll do it."

There was a weird air of pressure to the subject, the subtext that quietly detailed in that they'd be frightening and traumatizing this woman. The deal might even end up with her dead, but that went unsaid. They needed another arm in the outside world.

They needed to rope Marcy in.


End file.
